without brains.
“Did you know for certain it was laced with TNT?”
“Yes.”
If the doctor wondered why, he didn’t ask. As all acidheads knew, TNT-LACED acid heightened sexual experience. For better orgasms, Rachel’s son was now brain damaged.
“I’ve not seen the studies, so I can’t tell you if what you took caused Dylan’s problems. And ultimately it may not be possible to tell. But frankly, Rachel, I’m not sure just how useful it is to know that. You could end up consuming yourself with guilt.”
She nodded. I already am .
“Have you discussed this with Martin?”
“Yes.” She had not expected the question. Reflexively, she lied, knowing how much worse it would sound if she had kept it from him. Although Martin knew that she had taken drugs in college—something she had confessed years ago—he did not know about TNT. Maybe someday she’d tell him. But how do you admit to your husband that you may have ruined your only child?
“Well, I think the important thing is to decide on how best to help Dylan with his learning process—working with his school to get the best programs for him. I’ll be happy to give you a referral to pediatric neurologists.” He wrote some names on a notepad and handed them to her.
She thanked him and got up to leave, feeling sick to the core of her soul.
She took a long last look at the films against the light board, thinking that she would do anything to go back in time and undo what she had done.
Anything.
6
CENTRAL FLORIDA
I n the open, he was a monster. In the bush, he was invisible.
Billy liked that. He liked how he moved through the woods like a ripple. The alien in Predator . He liked how he could disappear by standing still. He liked how he could melt into scrub so that neither human nor beast could detect his presence. The excitement made him sweat all the more.
What he did not like was the heat.
He slipped out from the clutch of sapling oaks and crossed the clearing. The late afternoon sun sent thick shafts of light through the woods. He wished it were cloudy and twenty degrees cooler. He wished he were doing this someplace in the cool north and not these backwater woods of central Florida where the air felt like hot glue. He wished this were a simple snick, snick, you’re dead .
The scent-free, 3-D hooded camo suit with the fake leaves sewn all over the surface was the stalker’s dream. The ultimate in concealment, short of turning into a butterfly. But the material did not breathe. Inside the hood, his face was slick and his clothes were soaked with perspiration. That made him angry. That made him want to get this over with snick snick. But that wasn’t the assignment.
Billy passed through the clearing to the shack by Little Wiggins Canal, as it was known to the locals, or Number 341 to the U.S. Geological Survey map. The structure was little more than a six-foot cube, banged together with old timbers and roofing sheets the kid’s mother picked up somewhere. The floor was an ancient piece of linoleum over dirt, and the compressed-wood
door and single window were crude. The interior consisted of a child’s table and chair, some Matchbox cars, a butterfly guidebook, a Gators banner, and tacked-up pictures of the kid and his dog—rough gestures at clubhouse homeyness, Billy thought. The place was a second home to the kid, a hangout for him and his dog, a place to play fort, games, hide-and-seek with other kids. A little tyke hideaway by the canal.
It was also the last place the little tyke would remember of his old life.
Through the brush, the battered blue and white Airstream trailer that the kid and his mother called home was barely visible from the canal, perched up on the bluff maybe a hundred feet from the shack. Because of the recent drought, the water was low so the mother had no reason to fear the kid getting swept downstream. Spring would be a different story altogether. She’d never let him come down here alone, especially since
“Did you know for certain it was laced with TNT?”
“Yes.”
If the doctor wondered why, he didn’t ask. As all acidheads knew, TNT-LACED acid heightened sexual experience. For better orgasms, Rachel’s son was now brain damaged.
“I’ve not seen the studies, so I can’t tell you if what you took caused Dylan’s problems. And ultimately it may not be possible to tell. But frankly, Rachel, I’m not sure just how useful it is to know that. You could end up consuming yourself with guilt.”
She nodded. I already am .
“Have you discussed this with Martin?”
“Yes.” She had not expected the question. Reflexively, she lied, knowing how much worse it would sound if she had kept it from him. Although Martin knew that she had taken drugs in college—something she had confessed years ago—he did not know about TNT. Maybe someday she’d tell him. But how do you admit to your husband that you may have ruined your only child?
“Well, I think the important thing is to decide on how best to help Dylan with his learning process—working with his school to get the best programs for him. I’ll be happy to give you a referral to pediatric neurologists.” He wrote some names on a notepad and handed them to her.
She thanked him and got up to leave, feeling sick to the core of her soul.
She took a long last look at the films against the light board, thinking that she would do anything to go back in time and undo what she had done.
Anything.
6
CENTRAL FLORIDA
I n the open, he was a monster. In the bush, he was invisible.
Billy liked that. He liked how he moved through the woods like a ripple. The alien in Predator . He liked how he could disappear by standing still. He liked how he could melt into scrub so that neither human nor beast could detect his presence. The excitement made him sweat all the more.
What he did not like was the heat.
He slipped out from the clutch of sapling oaks and crossed the clearing. The late afternoon sun sent thick shafts of light through the woods. He wished it were cloudy and twenty degrees cooler. He wished he were doing this someplace in the cool north and not these backwater woods of central Florida where the air felt like hot glue. He wished this were a simple snick, snick, you’re dead .
The scent-free, 3-D hooded camo suit with the fake leaves sewn all over the surface was the stalker’s dream. The ultimate in concealment, short of turning into a butterfly. But the material did not breathe. Inside the hood, his face was slick and his clothes were soaked with perspiration. That made him angry. That made him want to get this over with snick snick. But that wasn’t the assignment.
Billy passed through the clearing to the shack by Little Wiggins Canal, as it was known to the locals, or Number 341 to the U.S. Geological Survey map. The structure was little more than a six-foot cube, banged together with old timbers and roofing sheets the kid’s mother picked up somewhere. The floor was an ancient piece of linoleum over dirt, and the compressed-wood
door and single window were crude. The interior consisted of a child’s table and chair, some Matchbox cars, a butterfly guidebook, a Gators banner, and tacked-up pictures of the kid and his dog—rough gestures at clubhouse homeyness, Billy thought. The place was a second home to the kid, a hangout for him and his dog, a place to play fort, games, hide-and-seek with other kids. A little tyke hideaway by the canal.
It was also the last place the little tyke would remember of his old life.
Through the brush, the battered blue and white Airstream trailer that the kid and his mother called home was barely visible from the canal, perched up on the bluff maybe a hundred feet from the shack. Because of the recent drought, the water was low so the mother had no reason to fear the kid getting swept downstream. Spring would be a different story altogether. She’d never let him come down here alone, especially since
Similar Books
